Monsoon

by Di Morrissey

  ‘No, thanks. Seems a lot of time is spent keeping spirits happy here.’

  ‘It’s true. You don’t want them feeling slighted and coming around bothering you.’

  They left Hue and drove back over the pass through the Truong Son mountains towards Danang, heading along the coast road in a blustery wind.

  ‘This area must have the worst weather in Vietnam,’ commented Anna.

  ‘We’re turning inland soon. The orphanage is close enough to the coast to take the girls to the beach today.’

  ‘What goes on at the ceremony tomorrow?’

  ‘It’s a way of making the girls feel they are growing up. Dancing, music, games, fun stuff. Each girl gives up something from her childhood – a small toy if she has one, a ribbon, a lock of hair – and she is given a symbolic gift of womanhood: red fruit, rice dyed pink for fertility and paper shoes as a means of walking into the next stage of her life.’

  ‘Nice. Do boys have a similar thing?’

  ‘More or less. I’ve never been to one; it’s men only. Kim went once. I could ask him. Even those of us not involved in the orphanage project take an interest,’ said Sandy, and again Anna wondered when Sandy was going to put her work with HOPE behind her and move on with her life. The stint of running Barney’s Bar when they got back to Hanoi would be good for her.

  The orphanage was on the outskirts of a village surrounded by palm trees next to a narrow river. A water buffalo was dragging a plough through a rice paddy and behind the long low buildings were neat garden beds and animal pens.

  As Sandy drove up, several young children raced outside excitedly waving. A young Vietnamese woman, about the same age as Sandy and Anna, followed them out, holding a smaller child on her hip.

  Sandy greeted the woman and introduced Anna while a little girl tugged at her, chattering as fast as a monkey.

  Anna patted her head and turned to Sandy. ‘What’s she saying?’

  Sandy gently shooed her and the other girls back inside where curious faces were gathered at the open window of a school room. ‘She’s asking if you have come for them, are you her mother.’

  ‘Oh. Do people adopt kids from here? Foreigners, I mean?’

  ‘No. This is not one of the government-approved adoption orphanages. HOPE set this up for kids in the surrounding area who have been abandoned, or whose families can’t feed or care for them but who come and visit. Some kids are just too damaged and are a liability to poor families who need them to work. If they have a disabled baby they try again for a healthy one. And so it goes on,’ sighed Sandy.

  Anna and Sandy were shown to a small room with two narrow beds, a mosquito net and windows with open shutters.

  ‘This is the VIP quarters. We share the girls’ communal bathhouse. It’s basic but clean. Dump your stuff and I’ll take you on a tour.’

  Anna was subdued as Sandy took her around the various buildings – two school rooms, two dormitories furnished with simple frame beds and cots, a kitchen and dining area and three rooms for staff on night duty. The staff were from the local villages and knew most of the children’s families.

  ‘It’s very much a local co-operative, isn’t it?’ said Anna. ‘But there are no frills. No play equipment, no proper desks.’

  ‘Compared to what they had before, which was nothing but a lean-to shelter with a local woman trying her best to feed the homeless ones, this is five star.’

  ‘I see why you want to keep involved with them. It’d be good to fundraise to get them extra things. It’s so hard seeing some of the children with the birth defects . . .’ Anna found it hard to speak. The sight of the handicapped children shocked and upset her. ‘Why isn’t more being done? Compensation, help, money . . .’ she began.

  ‘There are a lot of good people helping with various charities and aid programs for children and other victims.’ Sandy tried to sound upbeat. ‘These kids are amazing. It’s lovely to see them mingle as one family, all accepting each other. Now, there are the four girls who are taking part in the ceremony tomorrow. Come and meet them before we go to the beach.’

  Despite the ominous clouds and murky sky they set off for the coast in high spirits. Three girls were in the back, while Phuong, a slim girl, squeezed in the front next to Anna as Sandy drove. They sang, teaching Anna ‘The Song of the Blackbird’ in what Sandy called the tinh tang style of the Hue dialect. One of the girls in the back seat pulled out her bamboo flute to accompany them.

  They pulled in to a village, just a few scattered houses that over-looked a sweep of beach. It was off the beaten track and few visited the area. Sandy explained they would eat at a small kiosk on the beach.

  The beach was windswept and deserted. White choppy waves clawed at the shore. In two teams the girls raced the kites they had brought with them against each other, higher and higher, dipping and diving, the bamboo flute attached to one of the kites singing like a bird, the other like a musical deep-throated frog.

  Anna had her camera out and took some dramatic photos of the tiny kites high above the churning sea against the thickening clouds.

  ‘I don’t like the look of that sky. I think we’ll have an early lunch and head back,’ said Sandy.

  The girls giggled as they ate their lunch at the little seaside kiosk. The owner soon closed his shop as rain began to spatter and the nearby village became ominously empty. Before Sandy and Anna had shepherded the girls to the car, it was streaming tropical rain and the day had disappeared behind black clouds.

  Sandy started the car and turned away from the beach along the small road that ran beside the dykes rimming the rice paddies.

  ‘Do they ever overflow?’ asked Anna, looking at the solid curtain of rain that almost obscured the fields of rice where the water channels were rushing with brown water and palm trees fringing the paddies were being lashed by the wind.

  ‘Sometimes. I think we’re far enough now from the ocean not to worry about huge waves.’

  ‘This wind is a bit much,’ said Anna nervously as she felt the car blown sideways. ‘I can’t see a thing. Where’s the road? If you can call it that.’

  There was a crunch and the car swerved and came to a thudding halt. The girls squealed and Anna gripped the dashboard, trying to see out the windscreen through the streaming water.

  ‘Have we hit a tree? I can only see leaves and stuff.’

  ‘Not sure, I’ll look.’ Sandy pushed open the door and for a moment Anna thought it would be whipped off by the howling wind. Sandy fell back into the driver’s seat, wrenching the door shut. ‘Damn! There’s a tree down across the road.’

  ‘Track, you mean. I haven’t seen another car since we left the orphanage.’

  ‘It is pretty rural,’ admitted Sandy, pondering what their next move should be.

  ‘Rural!’ snorted Anna, peering at the shapes of the palm trees that were flailing wildly. ‘It looks like we’re surrounded by swimming pools.’

  The four girls looked scared and the one in the front touched Sandy’s arm and whispered to her.

  ‘What’s Phuong saying?’ asked Anna.

  ‘In a word: typhoon. They’re common around the Danang coast during the monsoon.’

  ‘You’re joking! So what do we do? I don’t want to sit in this car and be speared by a tree, thanks.’

  ‘I’ll back up, find a place to turn around,’ said Sandy.

  ‘Not towards the beach – that’s where the wind is coming from. What about tsunamis? We could get caught in a tidal wave,’ said Anna, remembering horror stories she’d seen on TV of events similar to this.

  ‘That’s earthquakes, not typhoons.’

  ‘Is there a village close by where we could shelter?’

  ‘Not that I know of.’ Sandy started reversing, and the girls cried out as the wheels bumped over a ditch. ‘Can’t see a damn thing. You’ll have to guide me, Anna.’

  ‘How? If I get out you won’t be able to see me and I’ll be blown away in this.’

  ‘Take the cords off th
e kites, quickly. Tie one end around your waist and see if you can lash one end to the bumper bar. They’re very strong bamboo straps.’

  Anna didn’t argue: Sandy seemed to know what she was doing and had taken control. Anna stepped out of the car, losing her balance as the wind whipped at her. Grabbing the door, she righted herself and groped her way to the back of the car and was instantly soaked to her skin. Wiping the running water from her face and eyes she fumbled to tie the end around the bumper bar so she was tethered to the car. She banged on the rear end and began walking beside the car as Sandy inched backwards, guided by Anna’s blows.

  After a short while she gave three sharp bangs, worked her way to Sandy’s window and shouted above the wind. ‘There’s a clearing. You can do a tight turn.’ Anna waved her hand, indicating the direction.

  After they turned Sandy hauled Anna back into the car and inched forward, the headlights probing the solid curtain of rain. It was a long slow journey to travel a relatively short distance. Anna had never seen weather like it. The water was starting to gush across the road and the wind was wild. They passed an upturned cart, but seeing no one they continued on as Sandy retraced their way though the countryside till they came to a packed earthen mound running along a paddy field.

  ‘That’s it, I remember now.’ Sandy stopped the car and got out and peered over the top of the mound.

  ‘Be careful!’

  Sandy beckoned. ‘Come on. Anna, bring the girls one at a time.’

  ‘Where’re we going, for God’s sake?’ Anna grabbed Phuong’s arm and helped her from the car.

  ‘Look, there’s a big mausoleum on a rise in the middle of the field. We can shelter in there.’

  ‘What!’

  ‘Just go. I’ll bring the other girls.’ She spoke quickly to Phuong, who nodded. ‘Phuong understands. There should be a sort of crypt thing you can get inside.’

  As Anna, still clutching Phuong, headed across the marshy rice paddy, Sandy returned to the car and quickly explained to the three other girls what was happening. In a flash they were out of the car, holding hands tightly, with the smallest holding on to Sandy.

  In the driving rain Anna felt her way around the stone mausoleum, which had a small carved obelisk on top. A tiny passage on one side had a narrow flight of steps leading below. Gripping the wall, Anna started down the steps, ducking to avoid banging her head.

  ‘Oh no! It’s pitch dark. How are we going to see in here?’

  They inched forward, feeling for the steps with their feet, reluctant to move into the musty dankness. As Anna tried to let her eyes adjust to the darkness, she saw an alcove in the stone wall. In it were sticks of incense and a box of matches. The flare from the light flickered around the urns and small statues dedicated to family ancestors. Anna shuddered but Phuong moved forward, curious and not afraid.

  ‘Are you okay?’

  Anna jumped as Sandy and the three girls clattered and slipped down the dark stairs. ‘Just a minute, I have matches.’ She lit another. ‘These aren’t going to last long.’

  Sandy saw Anna’s hand instinctively go to her throat and touch the little gold crucifix she’d always worn. Sandy knew it comforted her.

  ‘Is there an altar in there?’ Sandy groped her way forward.

  Anna held the match aloft. ‘There. What’s that? A shrine?’

  ‘Quick, let’s see.’ Sandy moved forward, waiting for the next match.

  In the short burst of light they saw some candles on the small altar and quickly lit them and gazed around.

  ‘Ooh, this is spooky,’ said Anna.

  Two of the girls were looking at the final resting places of half a dozen people. Sandy picked up a candle and explored the small crypt.

  ‘Well, it’s damp but no rain. Nothing can fall on us in here.’

  Anna didn’t answer, hoping that floodwaters wouldn’t rush in, praying that something wouldn’t fall and block the stairs and their only exit.

  ‘Make yourselves comfortable.’ Sandy sat down and leaned against the cool stone wall.

  They huddled together as the wind howled and screamed, whipping the rain into spinning spirals of water that lashed the outside of the ornate stone edifice.

  ‘Not like the rain in Sydney, is it?’ said Sandy. ‘I hope this passes quickly. Sometimes typhoons race across the coast rather than hang about.’

  ‘This rain doesn’t sound like it’s going anywhere,’ said Anna. ‘How long is this likely to go on for?’

  ‘Not sure. At least it’s not cold, and we had lunch,’ said Sandy, trying to be cheerful. She spoke to the girls and two of them raised wan smiles. The other two continued to look terrified. Sandy’s worry was that they could get cut off and might not be reached for days. That’s if anyone knew where they were. She had a sudden thought. ‘I’m going to see if I can get some mobile reception.’ She quickly tapped out a text message and hurried up the steps. Turning her back to the rain she pushed the Send button and was relieved to see it had worked.

  She couldn’t see much and realised that the wind had increased dramatically. She hoped the children and staff at the orphanage were safe and that the buildings weren’t damaged. While the mausoleum was strong and offered shelter, it was uncomfortable and they had no food and water, though it struck her there could be some food offerings left on the altar shrine. The thought of staying the night was not appealing, but she knew that driving would be impossible until the wind and rain abated. She just hoped the car was not wrecked.

  All they could do was wait and keep the girls’ spirits up. At least growing up in central Vietnam the children were accustomed to the vagaries of the monsoon seasons.

  Sandy peered through the rain at the waterlogged landscape: the trees bent double; an earthen dyke built to protect the rice paddies now breached so water flowed across fields and tracks and swirled around trees, wiping away the flimsy structures of roadside stalls.

  Now soaked, she made her way slowly back down to where the four girls and Anna were huddled on the hard floor beneath the carved walls where Buddha’s attendants danced in a centuries-old circle, their movements frozen in the mottled stone.

  7

  EVEN FROM THE PLANE Tom could tell the city was a vastly different place from that which he remembered from the war years. It didn’t matter whether it was called Ho Chi Minh City, its official name, or Saigon, the name everyone used: the place had certainly changed. High-rise hotels, neon signs, roads twinkling with lights and cars: it looked like most international tourist cities. The swift taxi ride from the airport to the city confirmed this: the shops and restaurants, the people and the cars meant he could have been in Hong Kong, Bangkok or Shanghai.

  For old times’ sake he checked into the Caravelle Hotel, now modernised, but the first place he wanted to go for a drink before dinner was at the refurbished Continental Hotel.

  He hadn’t walked more than a few metres when he felt the need to stop and reflect. He looked around. Yes, it all came back. This was about the spot where he had so often paused to give a few coins to a girl, probably no more than five years old, who was there nearly every day selling little cardboard baskets of flowers. Like most of her foreign customers, he never took the flowers. Back then there were so many children on the streets, boys selling cigarettes or touting an introduction to their sister in sing-song English. ‘You like my sister, sir. Very nice Chinese. Very cheap, sir.’

  To his delight, the ground floor of the hotel was still pretty much as he knew it. No major structural changes had been made, although it now had modern interior décor and the outside had been given a facelift. But the mood of the hotel brought a fresh surge of memories. He had a sudden flashback to 1965 when he and some other correspondents had had dinner in a private room at the hotel with Air Vice Marshal Nguyen Cao Ky, who became vice-president after yet another coup d’etat.

  He remembered the handsome mustachioed man in the black flying suit and purple scarf. He had been a friendly, shrewd and gregarious man who n
onetheless set up public execution stakes in the Central Market as the first step in a campaign to stop racketeers profiteering from the war, and had spent the entire meal justifying his actions. Yes, it had been quite a dinner that evening. One of many extraordinary experiences he’d had in this city.

  Over the next few days Tom wallowed in the past as he strolled the streets, all the time conscious of being in a modern tourist city bursting with energy and commerce. Half the time he wondered if he was on Boulevard St Germain in Paris, Rodeo Drive in LA or Fifth Avenue, New York. He soon wanted to get out of the city and go back to the very different places that had made a really big impact on his life and career . . . Vung Tau and Nui Dat.

  He walked to Saigon harbour, glancing up at the old Majestic Hotel where he had spent many a happy hour on the rooftop terrace with other correspondents, and bought a ticket on the hydrofoil leaving for Vung Tau in Phuoc Tuy province. Tom hadn’t felt so rejuvenated in years.

  While not all the memories of his time in Vietnam were happy ones, it was a time that had shaped him as a journalist and as a man. War changed people. But there had been some great times. Good friends, heroic efforts, stories that touched the hearts and minds of Australians back home as well as fuelling the anti-war protestors. War brought out the best and worst in men. Men who’d never challenged authority, or accepted a dare from a mate, or who’d never shown courage in sport or at work suddenly dug deep and found themselves capable of great acts of bravery. There were insanely mad and funny times and inspirational people who would never be forgotten. How different from the control, the technology, the spin doctors and the organisation behind the media at war these days.

  In Tom’s day it had fallen to the honest men and women of the fourth estate to tell it as it was. There were those who got close to the action and saw it for themselves and there were those who reported stories from the safety of their favourite bar. But there was a hint of pride in his reflections. He had not been influenced by editors or the military. He’d tried to find out the truth himself and send back balanced and insightful reports.